like that.”
“Why?”
“That shit killed my mother.”
“Oh. So how about drugs?”
“No thanks.”
“No, I mean, do you smoke at all?”
“Cigarettes cause cancer.”
“I mean the other smoke.”
She shook her head and the blondeness shimmered. “My girlfriends, my roommates? They do grass all the time. I don’t like the smell.”
“I’m not a smoker or drinker either. I guess we’re just a couple of health nuts.”
She shrugged, spoke through a mouthful of pork. “I guess.”
“What do you do for fun, Luann?”
“TV. Movies.”
“You got a boyfriend?”
She made a face. “I get enough of that at work.”
“So. . .do you and your girlfriends. . .?”
“Get it on? No. Well, they do. They’re lezzies. Each his own.”
“How long have you been working?”
She frowned in thought, finally cleaning barbecue sauce off her face with a cloth napkin. “Hookin’ or strippin’?”
“Hooking.”
“Since I was thirteen. No. . .twelve.”
“Twelve.” I had encountered my share of fucked-up shit, but this was right in there.
She shrugged. “My boobies come in early. Never got much bigger , but I got ’em.”
Whoever had turned her out at that age could use a beating and a bullet. But that was a long time ago, and not my business.
Of course nothing about her life was my business, except that in a way it was. I was trying to size her up. To understand her. If she’d seen what I did last night, that would have made her a witness. Which really sucked. What had I been thinking?
I heard myself ask, “You a runaway?”
She shook her head and the blonde hair danced on her shoulders. “No.”
“Then how did you come in contact with a pimp?”
“Didn’t.”
“How did you start?”
“You’re awful curious today.”
I had another bite of my sandwich. “Just interested, Luann. Who put you on the game?”
“I been with Mr. Woody for like. . .forever.”
“ He turned you out?”
She thought about that. Nibbled a French fry dipped in barbecue sauce. “Not really. See, my mom sold me to Mr. Woody.”
“Sold you?”
“Yeah. She was running a house for him. He paid big money for me.” Then she did the damnedest thing: she grinned at me. First time. “I guess they never heard of Abe Lincoln.”
I put my half-eaten sandwich down. Takes something special to get to me, but this one turned my stomach.
I pretended it hadn’t, and sipped Coke. “What do you do with your money? Mr. Woody does pay you. . .?”
“Sure he does. I’m not that big a slave. He’s paid me all along.”
“So what do you do with your money?”
“Save it.”
“What for?”
“Tomorrow.” She frowned in thought again. “Not tomorrow tomorrow, but for. . .sometime.”
I signed the check to my room, and as we walked back, she did something even odder than grin at me: she slipped her hand in mine.
“You’re nice,” she said. “Or am I over the line?”
“Not at all.”
I guessed if blowing me within an hour of meeting me hadn’t been over the line, neither was this.
I said, “Well, I like you, too, Luann.”
“I don’t mean anythin’ drippy.”
She even sounded young.
She went on: “I just think you’re nice. Because, what you did last night? That was totally awesome.”
I didn’t know what she meant, or maybe I was afraid I did. After what went down at the Dixie Club, I’d joined her in the car, from which she shouldn’t have been able to see anything. We had driven back to Memphis and she’d been very quiet, sitting with her seat belt off and hugging her legs, heels of her feet on the Mustang’s bucket seat. No radio, but also no conversation. The ninety-minute drive had been surreal, as we wove through a ghostly moon-swept night haunted by kudzu beasts. If that weren’t frightening enough, we’d stayed at the airport Motel 6. There we’d shared a bed, but no conversation.
In the morning, I’d used a rubber (as was my habit with her) for some missionary sex, which
“Why?”
“That shit killed my mother.”
“Oh. So how about drugs?”
“No thanks.”
“No, I mean, do you smoke at all?”
“Cigarettes cause cancer.”
“I mean the other smoke.”
She shook her head and the blondeness shimmered. “My girlfriends, my roommates? They do grass all the time. I don’t like the smell.”
“I’m not a smoker or drinker either. I guess we’re just a couple of health nuts.”
She shrugged, spoke through a mouthful of pork. “I guess.”
“What do you do for fun, Luann?”
“TV. Movies.”
“You got a boyfriend?”
She made a face. “I get enough of that at work.”
“So. . .do you and your girlfriends. . .?”
“Get it on? No. Well, they do. They’re lezzies. Each his own.”
“How long have you been working?”
She frowned in thought, finally cleaning barbecue sauce off her face with a cloth napkin. “Hookin’ or strippin’?”
“Hooking.”
“Since I was thirteen. No. . .twelve.”
“Twelve.” I had encountered my share of fucked-up shit, but this was right in there.
She shrugged. “My boobies come in early. Never got much bigger , but I got ’em.”
Whoever had turned her out at that age could use a beating and a bullet. But that was a long time ago, and not my business.
Of course nothing about her life was my business, except that in a way it was. I was trying to size her up. To understand her. If she’d seen what I did last night, that would have made her a witness. Which really sucked. What had I been thinking?
I heard myself ask, “You a runaway?”
She shook her head and the blonde hair danced on her shoulders. “No.”
“Then how did you come in contact with a pimp?”
“Didn’t.”
“How did you start?”
“You’re awful curious today.”
I had another bite of my sandwich. “Just interested, Luann. Who put you on the game?”
“I been with Mr. Woody for like. . .forever.”
“ He turned you out?”
She thought about that. Nibbled a French fry dipped in barbecue sauce. “Not really. See, my mom sold me to Mr. Woody.”
“Sold you?”
“Yeah. She was running a house for him. He paid big money for me.” Then she did the damnedest thing: she grinned at me. First time. “I guess they never heard of Abe Lincoln.”
I put my half-eaten sandwich down. Takes something special to get to me, but this one turned my stomach.
I pretended it hadn’t, and sipped Coke. “What do you do with your money? Mr. Woody does pay you. . .?”
“Sure he does. I’m not that big a slave. He’s paid me all along.”
“So what do you do with your money?”
“Save it.”
“What for?”
“Tomorrow.” She frowned in thought again. “Not tomorrow tomorrow, but for. . .sometime.”
I signed the check to my room, and as we walked back, she did something even odder than grin at me: she slipped her hand in mine.
“You’re nice,” she said. “Or am I over the line?”
“Not at all.”
I guessed if blowing me within an hour of meeting me hadn’t been over the line, neither was this.
I said, “Well, I like you, too, Luann.”
“I don’t mean anythin’ drippy.”
She even sounded young.
She went on: “I just think you’re nice. Because, what you did last night? That was totally awesome.”
I didn’t know what she meant, or maybe I was afraid I did. After what went down at the Dixie Club, I’d joined her in the car, from which she shouldn’t have been able to see anything. We had driven back to Memphis and she’d been very quiet, sitting with her seat belt off and hugging her legs, heels of her feet on the Mustang’s bucket seat. No radio, but also no conversation. The ninety-minute drive had been surreal, as we wove through a ghostly moon-swept night haunted by kudzu beasts. If that weren’t frightening enough, we’d stayed at the airport Motel 6. There we’d shared a bed, but no conversation.
In the morning, I’d used a rubber (as was my habit with her) for some missionary sex, which
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